Darkness Dawns
by rockstarcowboy
Summary: This fic takes place during the same time and in the same general vicinity as what appears in the movie - it just focuses on a different group of individuals. Will they survive as Darkness Dawns?
1. Awakening

She walked alone down the dark street, the night wind biting at her exposed flesh despite her heavy, faux-furred coat. She pulled the mass of fibers closer around her shoulders and hastened her stride. The _click-clack_ sound of her stiletto pumps on the concrete sidewalk created the only disturbance amidst the eerily silent urban setting.

Downtown Milwaukee was strangely empty this evening, despite the golden- haired woman's attempt at picking up business in what had always been hotspots. She had been waiting at seedy street corners for what seemed to be eons to no avail – apparently tonight all of Wisconsin's cocks were happily flaccid, all the fat businessmen on their way home in the chilly twilight intent on returning to their June Cleaver and Carol Brady wives.

Where there's a will, there's a way, the woman known only as Delilah reassured herself. She turned down another street corner. The lights from the bar – her last resort – illuminated the darkness like a beacon to a lost sailor. Hopefully many lost sailors would be inside so Delilah would be able to afford that Louis Vuitton purse she had been eyeing at Neiman Marcus.

With the click of her stilettos she entered the small pub, the wind whisking her long, scarlet curls out behind her. It was a chilly night, Delilah mused. Which was strange, as it was in the middle of summer.

She eyed the man – her target – like a lioness does her prey. He was older, but with a full set of shiny silver hair. He was tall – like Delilah herself was – and finicky. He appeared nervous as he sipped at what appeared to be a martini on the rocks, dry, and with an olive.

This place was classy, Delilah always seemed to notice – the johns she picked up here were often times rich business elite, CEOs, doctors, or lawyers. This man was no exception, she surmised, judging from his freshly-pressed pinstripe suit.

"Hi there handsome," she whispered, her voice sultry and seductive as she swung one garter-and-hoed leg over the stool next to him.

The man, probably in his early forties, jumped then turned to her, her heavy perfume filling up his nostrils.

"Uh, h-hi there..." he replied, his voice throaty as he stared at the beautiful woman beside him. "Can I h-help you?"

"Aw baby..." Delilah smiled, leaning over dangerously close. "I think we both know why I'm here." She leaned back, exposing her expansive bosom, a gold necklace with a star charm dangling in her cleavage. She ran a neatly manicured finger down her velvet bustier. "I'm the angel sent to rescue you from whatever problems you got, darlin'."

The man almost blushed, but managed to catch himself. "O-oh... You're a-a- a..."

"I'm a companion, gorgeous. Do you have a name?"

He cleared his throat, trying to gain his composure. "Nelson."

"Nelson... That's cute. Well, I'm Delilah. And I'm all yours, if you're up for it." It was almost standard operating procedure for the woman known as Delilah. The lines she spoke, the body language she evoked, the sex appeal she emitted. It was all a weapon that she wielded masterfully. As usual, it was working as Nelson smiled stupidly, staring into Delilah's blazing emerald eyes.

"I've got the money," Nelson stated, almost proudly.

"And I've got the goods, _darlin'_."

Delilah whispered the going rate in Nelson's ear as he removed a quartet of one hundred dollar bills from his wallet. He held them in his hand and Delilah grasped his wrist, guiding it down towards her garter. He slid the bills under the elastic band and the pair rose to their feet. Delilah shook the picture of an attractive blonde and three young kids she had found in his billfold from her mind. It was about this time that the guilt always kicked in – but, just like always, it subsided as the pair made their way to the cheap motel across the street. Despite his initially demure and modest demeanor, Nelson was wild between the sheets. By the time they were done, Delilah's loins were on fire and it was almost six in the morning.

He rose slowly out of the bed, standing in all his naked glory before her. "I think I had better get home."

_And I think I need a shower_, Delilah told herself as she ran a hand through her beautiful blonde locks. She felt his soft kisses on her bare shoulder as she rose to her feet.

"We can go again – but that'll cost ya, handsome."

"Well then – I guess I should probably leave before—"

"Before your kids wake up?" Delilah finished for him.

"Y-Yes. How did you know?"

"Magic," Delilah smiled, tapping her forehead. "Get going, man. You're hardly the first dude I've fucked that had to get home before his wife got up."

Nelson nodded and walked to the door, his Armani loafers in his hand. "T- Thank you."

"My pleasure – look me up again."

He closed the door silently, as if the realization of what he did was just now coming to clarity. Delilah felt no remorse for Mr. Nelson. He wasn't strong enough to resist his sexual tendencies. Too bad for him. His weakness was her benefit. It was a game of survival of the fittest, and there was no way she'd be on the losing side.

Delilah turned on the shower and stepped in. The water felt warm on her skin as it dripped through her long mane, plastering her hair like long tendrils along her back.

In a matter of twenty minutes, the place was tidy despite the scent of sex. Delilah slid her feet into her high heels and made her way out the door. Shrugging the fur coat onto her shoulders she made her way around a corner back to where she had parked her car. She glanced at the dark green bills in her handbag with a smile. Another successful day...that Louis Vuitton purse didn't look too far off after all.

Delilah slid her key into the lock of her Taurus and stepped into the vehicle. She started the car and was off quickly, speeding out of the dimly lit parking lot onto the interstate. Reaching into her purse she removed a cigarette and pressed it to her red lips. Taking a puff she turned onto the feeder and headed towards her apartment on the outskirts of downtown. It was only a temporary residence, and she was staying with a girlfriend… and fellow prostitute. In all honesty, Delilah had grown attached to both her friend and the quaint little abode as she turned into the parking lot. Her eyes were heavy, and not due to the prominent eye paint. She stifled a yawn as she pulled into a spot next to her friend's car. Glancing at the car clock before she pulled the key out of the ignition, she found it to be 6:32.

Opening the car door, Delilah planted one stiletto-heeled foot on the concrete. Then, she heard the noises. She made sure to exit the car quietly. The sounds chilled her blood and sent rigors up her spine. It was the sound of rhapsody in demise. The gurgling of blood and ripping noise of chewing danced into her ears as Delilah slowly made her way up a walkway into the complex. Her apartment was just mere doors away, but the sounds kept coming – scaring the living shit out of her. But, alas, something was amiss. Delilah formed a fist with her left hand, one of the sharp keys from the chain protruding from between her index and middle finger like a makeshift knife.

The sounds were closer now, just around the corner. Mustering up her nerve and inhaling slowly, Delilah rounded the bend. What she saw left her speechless and dumbfounded; for a second she forgot how to breathe. Pivoting on the spike of her heel, Delilah ran back around the corner.

Two corpses were _eating_ a man.

Delilah went pale and began dry heaving. Finally she vomited all over the concrete. By then, she finally noticed that the noises had stopped.

Knowing good and well that whoever or whatever those... things were that were doing that had heard her, Delilah dashed to her door and slid her key in the lock. She threw it open and rushed inside. Slamming the door, she then locked it and ran towards the kitchen to pick up the phone. Her knees almost gave out as she clasped the plastic of the telephone, and she fell into the wall.

"Delilah – what the hell is going on?"

Delilah jumped at the voice and turned, her key-knife outstretched as she prepared to instill death.

"Oh god, Mel. Something is outside – someone's dead... Someone's fucking dead!"

"'Lilah – hold up, hold up. What do you mean?" Mel's eyes were cloudy, having just been ripped from her sleep by the noise of her roommate coming back home. She ran a hand through her disheveled brown hair.

"They were eating him, Mel!"

"Delilah, were you out drinking tonight?" Mel inquired as she walked back into the living room and collapsed on the couch.

"Fucking no! I saw it!"

"I wanna go look!" Mel declared, unlocking the door.

"NO! Lock the damn door back, Mel!" Delilah looked away as she dialed 9-1-1.

"This is 911 - Mona speaking. Please state your emergency."

"These dudes are eating a man right outside of my apartment!"

"Excuse me?"

"Please hurry – I think the man's dead but you've gotta hurry, lady."

"Certainly, I'm sending dispatch now."

"I'm at the Maple Spring apartments, that's off of Interstate—"

Delilah was interrupted as the door burst opened, sending Mel into a flying heap on the floor. What stood in the threshold was an image epitomizing death, destruction, and bloodlust. The man standing before the two women was what was left of an air conditioning repair man named Donny, as the sewn-in name tag over his left breast indicated. He had a gaping wound from his neck and multiple bite marks along his arms. Blood flowed freely out of his mouth, puss festering along his open lacerations. He roared from side to side as the masticated human being lunged forward, right on top of Mel.

Mel screamed as she squirmed on the floor, feeling the zombie's teeth sink into her upper breast. He ripped flesh and cloth from her nightshirt away as he pulled his head back, screaming again. His eyes were yellow, dead, empty.

Mel screamed again as her lifeblood spilled out beneath her on the hardwood floor. Donny sunk his teeth into her shoulder as Mel's body shuddered and her eyes rolled back into her head. Delilah screamed hysterically, dropping the phone. Mona continued humming in response as the blonde bombshell dropped it, letting it dangle by the cord.

"MEL!" Delilah shrieked as the zombie pulled away. Donny rose to his full height, fresh blood spilling down his chin in rivulets. He darted forward, intent on Delilah, fueled on by hunger and the prospect of a second meal.

Delilah screamed again, and dashed into her bedroom. She slammed into a cheap dresser, the wind flying from her lungs as she kicked the door closed. She scoured her room, searching for anything she could use to defend herself against that man – whatever the hell he was.

The door burst into splinters as a head busted through the wood. Delilah hefted the lamp standing next to her bed and slammed it into Donny's forehead – sending him sprawling back into the hallway. Suddenly, another figure joined the fray.

"Mel! You're alive!" Delilah wheezed. "Wait, what the – _FUCK_!"

The woman that was once Mel rushed through the door. Delilah dashed over her bed, smacking hard into the wall. She groaned as Mel snarled at her, blood flying from her mouth onto Delilah's face. Delilah screamed as she felt the force of her friend jump onto her body, slamming her even harder against the wall.

Delilah thrashed outward, her hand smacking Mel in the forehead. The female fell backwards as Donny rose to his feet and leapt over the bed. Delilah dashed to her left, teetering atop her stilettos, and came to stand before a large window that overlooked the courtyard beyond. Because it was her only option left, this being emphasized by the blood-thirsty roars from Donny and Mel, Delilah covered her face with her heavy fur jacket and jumped forwards, exploding through the glass window like a bullet.

Delilah landed hard and rolled onto her side, coming to rest by a fountain. She looked back, golden curls whipping about her face. Donny was stepping through the shattered window frame, halfway out of the apartment. Delilah regained her footing, then turned and bolted, her keys in hand.

With tears streaming down her face, she sprinted along what seemed to be infinite sidewalks. Everywhere there were screams. She saw one woman leap from her third story apartment and land in a bloody heap along the concrete pathway behind Delilah. An ambulance rolled into the parking lot, but she didn't stop. They were still behind her. She ran past a tree, her Taurus in clear view.

Rummaging through her keys as she jumped onto the pavement next to the car, she looked behind her. Mel and Donny had abandoned their chase and were feasting on the paramedics that exited the ambulance. Somewhere behind her there was an explosion but Delilah didn't stop. She put the car in gear and slammed on the gas. She exploded out of the lot, pandemonium and destruction behind her.

But it was just the beginning.


	2. Panic

Patricia Sanchez rushed from her home, the bleeding child clutched to her breast as the grown woman heaved. With shaky hands and uneven breath she pulled the door to her Durango open. Patricia's eyes were blinded by her tears and everything around her was muted by the cacophony of her two-year old son's high-pitched screams. She leaned into the Chevrolet, sobbing hysterically as she attempted to buckle the little boy into his car seat. She had to move fast, because they were coming.

She pulled her carnation pink nightgown, now reddened by little Jimmy's blood, closer about her frame, her feet planted within her matching slippers. Patricia pushed down with all her might atop the buckle of the seat, but it only managed to scrape against the boy's bleeding shoulder. In all honesty, if Patricia didn't get control over herself, she'd never get this kid in his seat.

"MOMMY!" the boy cried out, his hands extended towards the woman.

"GODDAMN IT!" the woman cursed as she ripped the boy from his seat. Behind her, the door to her modest suburban home was busted open and three forms walked out onto the porch, their decimated faces on a swivel – scanning the area for potential prey.

And they spotted her.

In an instant, they leapt off of the porch, sprinting down the walkway, trampling the meticulously planted begonias Patricia had so carefully planted and maintained. In fact, the entire yard was well-arrayed with a variety of flowers and carefully-sculpted hedges. For, once, Patricia had been the ideal gardener... Once she had been the ideal mother, and the ideal caregiver, and the ideal wife.

But it appeared that, today, after all hell had broken loose, none of that mattered.

Patricia Sanchez hefted the Glock pistol her husband had kept in the nightstand next to their bed for safety precautions before her. There were already two shots lost - Patricia had emptied them into her husband mere minutes before.

But that apparently hadn't fazed them.

Her finger found the trigger, the pistol quivering in her hand as she held the boy to her breast, the wetness of his tears dripping down her collarbone.

It seemed that Patti wouldn't be able to fire again – to kill her husband – but then she remembered... Remembered Marco Sanchez getting up to see what that crashing noise was, and not returning after five minutes... She remembered throwing her white bathrobe over her silk nightgown and hearing screams – screams from her little boy, coming from his room.

The anger came and she fired.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

One fell to his knees. The other toppled backwards onto the concrete driveway. The third stumbled, and then looked back up at her, his yellowed eyes locked upon her smoky browns.

Marco Sanchez glanced down at his bloodied chest, a fresh hole imprinted in his bare flesh. His abdomen had a giant tear and parts of his intestines were exposed. Patti felt the bile rise in her throat as she clutched Jimmy closer to her.

His face was empty, devoid of expression as a stream of blood dribbled from his white lips. Then his lips parted, in a most horrific and terrifying smile, as he sneered. In an instant he charged forward, his bare feet scampering across the concrete as an explosion ripped through the air. Marco's body lurched with each contact until finally, his head exploded and he fell backwards, his body unmoving and still.

Patti continued to pull the trigger with each click as she stared in awe at the corpse of her dead husband. Tears streamed down her dark cheeks, tendrils of her longish black hair falling in her face.

She had no time to recover, however, as the other two beings that had stolen the life of her husband rose to their feet. The abominations rushed the Hispanic woman – but she thought quickly.

Pivoting in her slipper she darted down the driveway, the boy in her arms. He was quiet, no longer screaming, as his chest lurched as hiccups escaped from his mouth. She had no time to check on him – she heard them close behind her.

Patricia Sanchez never stopped to take in what had happened to her modest suburb as she bolted – her only motivation being to get her child out of there... But had she stopped, she would have noticed the fires and the explosions, the overturned cars and the broken down doorways... Patti did see her neighbors, all in different states of emergency around her.

Some were running, like her – others were on the ground, their eyes closed, surrounded by a pool of blood. People she knew, people she was friends with.

It was then that Patti had a realization. Where was she running to? Who would save her? Patricia was winded and, even though she jogged daily and was a distance runner in high school, it had been a while since her limits had really been pushed like this. She was fueled solely by adrenaline and her child's safety. She had to get to a hospital.

Patti rounded a corner, stepping carefully to avoid of a pair of corpses in the middle of the road – was it her imagination or was one of them moving?

Patricia was now on the main road that led out of her subdivision – to the highway. The noises behind her had diminished... Had she gotten away? Were they still following her? Had she actually gotten away?

"Patti!" A voice called out from behind and she turned. A silver F-150 pulled up beside her. "Get in!" a rugged-looking man called, his long brown hair blowing in the morning wind as his head protruded from the window.

Wes Warren was a friend of Patti's husband – a mechanic that owned his own shop downtown. As far as she knew, Wes was married but didn't have any kids.

"_Agradezca a Dios_," she whispered in Spanish as she ran to the other side and pulled the door open, her gun still in hand. But immediately she gasped, covering her mouth at the sight before her.

Wes' wife was lying in the seat, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, and her face deathly pale... But what was worse was the gaping chunk of flesh missing from her side and the stained blood that was seeping through the shower towel Wes had obviously thrown together to use as a makeshift tourniquet. She moaned quietly, her dark hair matted to her forehead from sweat.

"One of those motherfuckers got in," Wes spoke quietly as Patti slid quickly into the backseat, holding Jimmy. "Had to stick the fire poker through his head before the little shit finally died." Wes pressed the lock button and Patti emitted a sigh of relief. Jimmy leaned against her shoulder and she kissed his head. His bleeding had stopped.

"How's Marco?"

Patti stared ahead at nothing, massaging her son's neck. "He's... Marco's dead."

Wes nodded as he slammed his bare foot onto the clutch and shifted to third. He rubbed his wife's sweaty forehead as they sped away. But, right as they were taking off, there was a loud thud in the bed of Wes' truck – and a rudimentary growl accompanying it.

"Aww, fuck. Get down Patti!"

Covering her child with her body, Patricia dropped to the floor of the truck as a bloodied face exploded through the rear window, showering the four with glass. Suddenly, another body slammed into the side of the Ford. Wes kicked the accelerator and they were off. He turned in his seat, hefting the aforementioned fire poker.

The zombie clawed at Patti. She felt his hands on her thick robe and silken gown; blood dripped from his gaping maw onto her back, covering the seats with the sticky substance as the man flailed. Jimmy kicked and screamed beneath her. Patti looked to Wes... She had never been more terrified in her life.

"Do something!" she shrieked as he leaned further backwards. With a grunt he slammed the poker into the zombie's head, and, immediately, the monster went limp. Wes turned quickly and resumed control of the wheel, hitting seventy miles per hour.

Patti got to her knees and pushed the corpse out of the car, the momentum of the moving vehicle causing the being to fly out of the bed and land in a bloody skidmark on the road below.

"You ok?" Wes inquired as he manned the truck.

But Patti couldn't respond.

They were everywhere. People she knew, people she didn't... Civilians crowding the streets – but they didn't look...alive. In fact, they all looked about as dead as they could be.

Wes flicked on the radio, flipping through channels until he found what he wanted.

_"This is Sandra Sanderson reporting live from Fort Pastor – where there is still room! All individuals currently searching for a safe location, please proceed to Fort Pastor – there are currently plenty of paramedics and doctors here to tend to the wounded as well as ample fortifications... To get here, take I-90 past Crossroads Mall all the way to..."_

"That's where we're gonna go," Wes said as they zoomed down the road.

Claire Warren moaned and Wes massaged her shoulder.

"Wes..." Patti spoke in a hush.

"What is it?"

"Look to your left..."

Charging, at alarming speeds, was a horde of zombie men and women, headed straight for the truck.


	3. Pursuit

_"This is Sandra Sanderson and I repeat – if you are able please proceed to the fortified Fort Pastor immediately…"_

The reporter's voice droned monotonously as the howls of the dead permeated from the Ford's metallic exterior. Patricia Sanchez screamed as she clutched Jimmy to her, her brown eyes scanning the approaching horde with raw and carnal fear.

The group's combined impact was immediate, as the truck shook and screeched, tires scratching forcefully along pavement. With another thunderous roar, the complete right side of the truck was lifted from the ground, and toppled onto its left side. Pat howled again as they tumbled within the containment, glass shattering from the windshield onto Wes and Claire.

"Back here!" Patti yelled to Wes, who in turn grabbed the vegetative Claire in his arms. Wes crawled next to Pat and Jimmy, as Claire's head bobbed against his shoulder. Bloodied arms ripped and twisted inwards, tearing at Pat's robe.

"We've got to get out of here!" Wes cried as another wave forced the truck to rotate again until they were sprawled across the roof of the F-150. With no further hesitation, Wes slammed one bare heel against the glass of the rear window, shattering upon impact. He grimaced as shards lodged in his foot, but forced Patricia forward.

"GO!" he instructed. Pat nodded as she pushed Jimmy forwards. It was tight, but the boy managed to get through. He crawled forward through the bed, his movements erratic and uneven.

"Move Jimmy!" his mother screamed as she too shimmied through the small window, jagged pieces tearing at the fabrics of Pat's robe and nightgown. "Son of a BITCH!" she shrieked as she threw Jimmy out of the bed, landing in a heap upon the concrete beside him. She felt wetness fall upon her back in a sheet, sticky and damp, as she turned, sending her dark tresses flying about her face.

Wes impaled a zombie in the stomach with the poker as he dragged Claire in the crook of his arm. Crimson liquid spurted from the wound, washing Patricia Sanchez in a tangy spray. Yet with all the gore, the dead man's onslaught continued unwaveringly. Spittle dangled from his gaping, bared maw, guttural groans erupted from his tattered throat. A wicked slash ran from his collarbone to his midsection, and one eye was completely removed from its socket.

With a punch, the man's hand dug into Claire's abdomen, ripping more flesh from her already exposed tissue. The faint woman howled as she toppled next to Pat and Jimmy. The boy awoke from his stupor as a scream exploded from his lips. Cold, clammy hands reached out for mother and child, but Patricia fought with a vengeance; she held the emptied pistol in her hand by the barrel, bludgeoning the walking corpses viciously as they lashed outwards. She was petrified, yet it seemed that Mrs. Marco Sanchez was being fueled by something beyond her control. A maternal instinct, perhaps? Regardless, she continued to slam the butt of the weapon into her attackers, the current target being a quite emaciated-looking female… Or what might have _once_ been a female.

"Christ!"

Patti turned, clutching Jimmy to her. They were surrounded by four of these… things. Wes looked quite frazzled, his fire poker dripping with blood as he ripped it from the skull of a freshly-downed cadaver. Claire stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder – it seemed to be the only thing that held her up. Unfortunately, that support was insufficient. The dying woman collapsed to her knees, blood oozing from a thousand different wounds.

"Claire!" Wes howled as he rushed to his wife, poker held at the ready. The frightful foursome closed the gap, however, Wes' swats doing little to deter them from their desire.

"GET AWAY FROM HER! GET AWAY, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"

Patti began to sob as she backed away, pulling her Jimmy along with her. She didn't want to leave her friend, who had probably saved her life, but she couldn't help but distance herself from the growing mob that was closing in on him and Claire. Her hands were shaky as she guided herself along the broken exterior of Wes' pickup. But she soon realized that the majority of the tremor was coming from her toddler.

"Jimmy?" she wheezed with a sniff. He nodded curtly, almost nonchalant; it was as if he didn't have a care in the world… As if the situation was hardly anything different than his usual weekday morning. Yet, his eyelids were heavy, and Patricia could feel the labored breathing against her breast.

"Don't worry, chico – Mommy's got you." She kissed his strangely cool forehead, crying softly. "Mommy won't let anything happen to you."

There was a sickening _crunch_, and Patti craned her neck to look back in Wes' direction. He was leaning over the lifeless body of Claire Warren and had just splintered one of the zombie's faces with the poker. However, he had plunged the javelin so deeply that he couldn't remove it from its resting place and was effectively unarmed.

"Wes!" Patricia shrieked. She moved forward, standing between Jimmy and the demonic abominations like a shield, slamming her Glock into the bloodied skull of the nearest. She struck him once, twice, and three times until she had broken the hard bone of its cranium and embedded pieces of brain, blood, and gore on the hilt of her weapon. A sickening vapor seeped onto her camisole-style nightgown, the lifeblood warm and sticky, but the being fell all the same.

A quivering hand found her wrist and Pat looked to see Wes inching next to her as a strong arm grasped at her thigh. Patricia looked down and screamed – Claire Warren was no longer dead. Her fingers dug into the silk and her jaw snapped maliciously, harbingering the promise of deadly intentions.

"Jesus, Wes… It's Claire!" Pat Sanchez cried out as Wes gagged. It was in fact Claire Warren who was crawling on her stomach, rising to her feet quickly with all of the agility of a cat, to seize Patricia.

"God, no…" Wes heaved, as Claire's sinewy arms entwined about Pat's legs. The Hispanic woman screamed and bent over, slamming her gun into Claire's face until nothing was left but a bloody mess. The thing that had once been Claire Warren released her hold on Pat and collapsed into a twitching heap. Sanchez wasted no time. She didn't know what had happened to cause Claire's transformation, but she had no intention of staying around to find out. She grasped one of Wes' arms as he stood in a shocked stupor.

"Wes, we have to go!" she stated tersely and impatiently, pulling him along behind her. Claire was on her feet again, flanked by a handful of her new friends who were now starting to jog after the pair. Pat's nightgown billowed out behind her as she scooped Jimmy up into her arms. Wes followed, albeit a bit more reluctantly. Pat understood his reticence – she, too, had just lost her spouse.

But right now, they had to get out of the middle of the street. This main drag ran straight through the commercial area that provided all of the necessities for Patricia and Wes' neighborhood. The familiar building that was Al's Market and Pharmacy stood off to Pat's left in the midst of a strip mall. They could go there – shelter was there… But, to Pat, it didn't really matter where they went; she just wanted to get out of the wide open, where they were sitting ducks.

She could barely breathe, she was running so hard. Jimmy's added weight did little to alleviate the situation. But managing one look behind her, beyond Wes, her fervor was revitalized as she imbibed an image of horror. A horde of the Dead were chasing after them with startling agility and speed.

"Patti!" Wes called to her. "Head behind the buildings!"

She didn't care to listen for his reasoning. Instead she just swerved, stepping onto the sidewalk before the locked doors to Al's Market and Pharmacy. Sprinting down the concrete, she pivoted around a set of bike racks and ran through a small alleyway that separated Al's from the next establishment – a video rental store. Patricia erupted out of the alcove, narrowly avoiding a rough collision with a dumpster. Wes followed, eying the trash vestibule with interest. One look at her male companion, and Pat knew exactly what he had in mind.

Both adults ran to one side of the dumpster and pushed, hard. Closing the exit to the alley, Pat jumped backwards as the first zombie hit.

"Jimmy, come to Mama," Patricia called, extending her hand to her son. Yet he remained stationary, sitting on his haunches as he looked off into nothingness, his head lolling at a precarious angle. Pat stifled a cry of anguish as she stepped forward and picked up the boy. The screams from the zombies on the other side of the dumpster would have frightened most anyone – hell, they terrified Patricia. Yet Jimmy seemed strangely unfazed.

Wes motioned for her to follow, and Pat fell in step behind him. They darted up an incline. Warren's hands went to what appeared to be the back entrance to Al's. The door was locked, and Wes cursed. The shrieks from the Dead were growing gradually louder. Pat looked on in horror as the dumpster shook and quaked beneath the onslaught of the demons. She couldn't help but scream as the dumpster groaned and lifted inch by inch…


End file.
